Men of conceit


& the men—they desire you to falter:

              Be a shabby loser, a con-man or a spiteful doer

Then they can press on you, ‘I know this is going to happen.’

I’m smart beyond compare!

       But such men—- they seem not understand—

Poets- scribble things & even that don’t mean—

       Well, I want to mean: no matter how we write about rivers & trees & flowers

The same way we choose to embrace &/or f**k them every day—

              Make sense so little; after all dreams are chosen & woven by all of us;

Our souls are in our hands.


              Still these men with their m_n_a_ illness have become “too cleverly presumptuous” for poets.

              So we let them smile.

                           SMILE ‘til their mouths tear apart.

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